I Don't Hate You
by CrystallicSky
Summary: 'I know you hate me,' Jack had said, and now I wonder for the first time since meeting him. Do I really? CHACK, ONESHOT


**I Don't Hate You**

**By: CrystallicSky**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Xiaolin Showdown or any of its characters, nor do I make any profit or attempt to with the writing of this or any of my other pieces.**

**Warnings: Language, homosexuality, implications of sexual situations, teensy bit of gore, etc.**

...

I have spent a lot of time here.

That is the understatement of the century, and of all people, I would know. I spend _most_ of my time here and I have learned it well. I know every nook and cranny; every feature of every room in my home is burned into my memory for eternity.

I'm beginning to entertain the idea of renovating just a bit, to spice up the monotony. The den could certainly use some new curtains, a less-worn coffee table, a splash of color _somewhere._

Yes, boredom takes up a surprisingly large amount of my time these days, and I have nothing _but_ time. Funny how in all the mentions of immortal life and power, the soul-deep ennui is never once brought up.

I don't regret my choice. I still do not want to die or age, ever. I simply wish things were a bit more entertaining now and again.

And then…I hear it: the sound of footsteps down the hall, only a few yards away.

I'm in a mood right now, much as I hate to admit having them. Truly, I can't be bothered to get angry at the thought of someone so deep within my inner sanctum, though surely, I should be. By all rights, I ought to be in the hall now, shrouding myself in an aura of indignant fury and snarling like the wicked hellbeast I am. _That_ never fails to send my foes fleeing like frightened weasels, leaving the odor of ammonia in the air behind them if I'm in particularly good form.

Perhaps I would do so now if I felt at all threatened; something _besides_ apathetic, at least.

Instead, I listen to the footsteps, determining what I can. If the situation calls for it, I will make myself get up and threaten the intruder, but I doubt that it will. How many enemies do I, Chase Young have to honestly worry about?

With each step outside, bringing the interloper ever closer to my current position, I notice an absent click. That familiar click is how I know that whoever this is deserves the name, 'interloper,' for the sound of clawed paws against marble floors is unmistakable and this isn't it. My warriors have given me a wide berth today, and I appreciate it. However, they must also be slacking to have allowed someone inside my palace without my permission. They'll receive a stern talking to, later: I truly cannot be bothered right now.

Steps, though, _human_ steps. There is a mortal in my hallway.

I briefly entertain the notion that it could be Bean using that damned Moby Morpher to imitate a human form, but I just as quickly dismiss it. No matter _how_ badly my minions are slacking, none of them would ignore an attempted invasion by Hannibal. Whoever it is, they must have been certain of my capability to handle him or her alone.

That, and Bean tends to carry a very nasty Heylin miasma with him wherever he goes, and I sense none of that, now.

I close my eyes, sharpening my already excellent hearing and _listen._ The strides are long, I hear, each step taking the person a good distance nearer to me than before. The intruder is tall, and I rule out half of the Xiaolin monks. It cannot be Tohomiko, as young ladies of her race and parentage do not _get_ that tall. Omi is also out of the question for obvious reasons.

Thinking on it, I decide to rule out Bailey, as well. The cowboy is certainly tall enough to possess those long-legged strides, but the person in my stronghold is alone, and that is not his style. Bailey's pack-mentality is too strong for him to attempt some sort of lone, renegade assault against me, no matter _how_ deep his righteous hatred of me might run.

Pedrosa, however, is still very possible. That sort of thing seems right up his alley.

An unpleasant thought slips into my head. Perhaps it could be Wuya: for a woman, her legs are fairly long, and we last parted on terms that were…almost amiable. She could easily be sniffing about looking to be taken in again, Shen Gong Wu detection and a desperation-fuck or two in exchange for providing her with room, board, and protection from whomever she had betrayed this time. I wonder if Spicer has had the sense to kick her out on her ass, yet.

And suddenly, I realize: _Spicer._

Yes, it must be, absolutely. The footsteps fit too perfectly. Spicer is tall enough to warrant those long steps and he's likely to have come alone (what allies _could_ he bring along to see me?).

The idea that it might have been Wuya seems silly, now. After all, the witch always goes barefoot, doesn't she? The footfalls outside are dull, loud and clunky in a way that suggests heavy-duty footwear, undoubtedly boots.

Pedrosa does not wear boots.

So, Spicer has come to visit me. That certainly explains why my minions trusted me to handle him alone, though I do wonder how he managed to actually get _in_ and how he knew to come this way to look for me.

Perhaps I should not be _so_ surprised: Spicer has the luck of fools and it's not inconceivable that he could've found me by sheer chance alone.

Spicer, unless I've missed my guess completely, is just outside the door, now. Puzzlingly enough, he has stopped walking as if he _knew_ this was the door he had been searching for.

I ponder teleporting elsewhere to avoid whatever headache he intends to cause me today, but the effort doesn't seem worth it. Honestly, Jack isn't _that_ annoying; not irritating enough to dispel my apathy.

There is only a moment of silence for me to think about this in before there is a knock on the door.

Before I can ask myself why I'm opening my mouth to speak, I am. "Come in," I distantly hear myself say and I resist the urge to wince at the sound of my voice. That came out _far_ less demanding than I'd meant it. It almost seemed _casual._

But, there was no time to mourn the temporary lapse in my commanding presence, for the door was easing open.

Spicer. Just as I'd thought.

He sees me and smiles, and I find I cannot even force a sneer to my face today. How vexing.

"Hey, Chase," he says to me in greeting, and I _do_ manage to regally incline my head, acknowledging him properly.

"Spicer," I say. "Do you have business with me?" The 'or are you just trying to make a nuisance out of yourself?' went unsaid. I simply don't have the fire for it, today.

Nonetheless, Jack seemed to have understood the words I did not say, for he answered quite promptly. "Actually, yeah," he said, his grin becoming sheepish.

I resisted the urge to smirk at that. It seems even _he_ has realized he can be a pest, sometimes. Instead, I raise an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.

The sheepish nature of his smile leaves as quickly as it came. Jack's grin is now a proud one. "Well," he begins, "not to brag or anything," what a saint I'm becoming, I didn't even roll my eyes!, "but I won a Showdown today!"

At that, I am surprised for two reasons. Most prominently shocking is the fact that Spicer was telling me he had _won_ a Showdown. Him, Jack Spicer, a paragon of clumsy mishaps and embarrassing failures! The second reason is, of course, that I'd been completely unaware that a Shen Gong Wu had gone active today.

These moods of mine are going to be the death of me unless I find something to entertain me soon.

As unbelievable as his words are, however, he reaches a hand inside that jacket of his and removes the unmistakable proof of his claim's veracity: the Wu in question.

I recognized it, of course. The small, scarlet orb he holds in the palm of his hand is the Blood Pearl, imbued with the power to replenish any amount of lost lifeforce. A life-saving Wu, the Blood Pearl is most useful in the hands of warriors who frequently find themselves cut up and losing blood.

I wonder, then, with my skill as a warlord to prevent me from being injured in battle, why Spicer is holding the Wu out to me in offering.

"I know it's not a good one," Jack admits with a shrug, "but I thought you might have _some_ use for it."

"You're giving it to me," I say, a statement and not a question. I watch him nod and frown lightly. "I have no need of it. I have no opponents that make me bleed; it is the other way around. If anything, Spicer, _you_ have more use for it than I."

And that was surely true. If Jack's body could speak, it would certainly confess a desire to bleed all over everything from every possible orifice. From his frequent bloody noses to the ease with which his skin split when battered, it seemed that some days, Spicer never _stopped_ losing blood.

By all rights, he ought to be hoarding that Wu more jealously than a miser with gold.

Still, he doesn't retract his hand. He holds the Blood Pearl out to me even more firmly than before. "Well, yeah, you're too awesome to get cut up…" he says almost casually, but I can hear a waver in his voice that sounds like embarrassment. Why is Spicer embarrassed? "But I mean, it could help your cats…or something, right…?"

I consider it. Yes, occasionally, my warriors do find themselves injured. The Blood Pearl would ensure a speedier recovery, and if the unthinkable should happen, it might be useful for me to keep it around. Even so…

"Why do you care about my warriors, Spicer?" I ask.

"I don't," he says immediately, only to realize how his words had sounded. "Not in that way," he quickly amends, "and I don't hate them or anything! Some of 'em are actually pretty nice. That one jaguar told me where you were and everything, so…"

I tuned him out for the briefest of moments. So _that_ was how he'd found me: he'd had help. I have very few jaguars serving beneath me, and only one who might be presumptuous enough to send me a visitor during one of my moods. I would have to punish Diol when I felt more up to the task, the cheeky bastard.

Jack shook his head abruptly and in such a daring move that I was stunned enough to let him, he reached out and caught my wrist, forcing the Blood Pearl into my hand.

"Look," he said stiffly and I found myself suddenly struck by the sound of his voice. It was a bit deeper than I last remembered hearing, but a smooth timbre that was actually…quite pleasing. "I know you hate me, but I want you to have it, anyway."

Before I could even think of reacting, Jack was out the door, his booted footsteps once more echoing in the hall; this time _away_ from me.

I am proud, but not so proud that I cannot admit it when I am confused. Right now, I could almost be called baffled.

What was all _that_ about? I wondered to myself. Virtually nothing about that encounter with Spicer made any sense. Truly, I should be on my feet and catching Jack, forcing him to explain himself.

Damn it all if this apathy doesn't have me sitting here, choosing to think about it, instead. The Blood Pearl is warm in my hand from the residual heat of Jack's hand and chest (why do I know his coat has an inside pocket right at his heart?).

'I know you hate me,' Jack had said, and now I wonder for the first time since meeting him.

Do I really?

I close my fingers around the Blood Pearl and stand, exiting my den. I don't go after Jack. Instead, I head towards my Shen Gong Wu vault, where his gift can be properly kept safe. My steps are as sure and steady as always, but I find my mind wandering to only a few moments in the past.

The sound of Spicer's pleasant voice confessing perceived hatred and the patter of his steel-toed boots slapping against the floor as he fled from me… Those sounds would not leave me and as they echoed in my head I continued to wonder.

Why did they displease me so much?

...

It is weeks before I see him again. If I didn't know better, I'd say Spicer has been avoiding me, as his near-daily visits have suspiciously stopped.

My bland mood has since faded quite completely and I feel much more like myself. I stand on the battlefield with my head held high, a proud and elegant warlord once more.

Fuck apathy, truly.

I revel in the glory of a wicked victory and it has truly been too long since I've last cared enough to even bother showing up to a Showdown, much less to _win_ it. I take a brief moment to admire the crystalline Panaceia's Teardrop gleaming brilliantly white against the darkness of my glove. It's another healing object, one designed to accelerate the natural process by roughly twelve times.

Like the Blood Pearl, I have little use for it, but why should I allow the Xiaolin to have it?

Said monks are already gone, having fled on their precious Dojo after I'd thoroughly trounced them. It is not them I am thinking of, now.

At the moment, it seems my thoughts lie with Spicer, who is nowhere in sight. Honestly, I'd only caught a glimpse of him earlier, as I'd arrived. Once the fight began, he practically vanished and never once engaged me.

Strange, but I can't help but wonder where the boy's gotten to. He can't have left: that helipack of his would've made _some_ noise, and even over the din of battle, I heard no such thing. If he hadn't flown away, perhaps he'd run…?

"Son of a _bitch!_" I hear from somewhere off to the left and my eyes pinpoint the source of the curse easily. A wide crater left by one of Bailey's attacks, and from within it, the sound of breathing and minute shifting.

_There you are._

In mere moments, I am down inside the deep depression, naturally untouched by the dust that kicks up around me.

Before me, however, Jack is decidedly less so.

Covered head to toe in dirt, his beloved leather jacket scuffed and torn, I watch as Jack pushes himself up into a sitting position. His heavy breathing and pained expression do not escape my notice, and neither does the odd way his booted foot seems to be resting. It is impossible to ignore the rock lying just beside it, either.

"Are you alright, Spicer?"

Jack's entire body seems to flinch at the sound of my voice. Those unnaturally red eyes of his look up at me, impossibly wide as he says my name and attempts to stand.

I'm not surprised in the least when his gaze goes cloudy with something like agony, only a few seconds preceding a dizzy sway and flop to the ground. Even as a gurgling moan escapes him, I find I'm at his side.

"Hold still," I order him, and he does so without a second thought. I almost preen at such blatant deference to me, but now is hardly the time. "What happened?"

Spicer takes a moment to answer, shaking his head as if to clear it of irrelevant thoughts. "I…fell," he says eventually.

I glance upwards to the mouth of the crater. A sight calculation tells me it was a fall of roughly fifteen feet. "You fell," I echo, and he nods to confirm it. "And then what?"

Jack frowns troublingly. "I dunno," he admits. "I guess I…blacked out?"

I feel myself frown as well. Unbidden, my hand is cupping the back of his skull, feeling amidst thick red hair for anything that might indicate a head injury. Even as I do so, Jack is struggling against me, albeit weakly, skittering backwards and away from my touch with what looks to be fear.

Regardless of my beauty, I _am_ a monster. A beast with a beast's instincts and Spicer's conduct is bringing them out of me. Injured, weak, and afraid, insolently trying to escape me, anyway…

Everything inside of me is labeling Spicer as 'prey,' and I growl in the back of my throat; a warning for now, but _not_ to be disobeyed.

Thankfully, Jack seems to understand it and freezes completely, allowing me to do as I wish. The obedience is enough for me to get myself under control again, and I calmly resume my investigation without resistance.

Sure enough, my fingers find a hard knot on the back of Spicer's head. He hisses in pain the moment I touch it, but it seems I cowed him well enough, for though he squirms a bit, he does not attempt to pull away.

"You hit your head, Spicer," I tell him matter-of-factly. "You likely have a concussion."

His eyes are on me at that, and I resist the urge to stare. There cannot be a more open book than Jack, truly: one look at those blood-red eyes of his, and I can tell everything he is feeling. Pain, worry, and confusion all swirling so clear in his eyes that I wonder briefly how he can stand to be so unguarded all the time.

"…shit," he says at long last, scowling deep in thought. "Probably shouldn't try to fly home," he then decides, tilting his head. "Maybe I could walk. I don't think it's _too_ far from here…"

Briefly, I contemplate stopping him as he sits up again and makes to stand. I just as quickly decide it will have more of an impact on him if he attempts to do it himself and realizes the consequences.

Jack doesn't even have a chance to try putting weight on his damaged ankle before he yelps and collapses into the dirt again, which is…disconcerting. There shouldn't have been that much pain just _moving_ his leg unless he was perhaps more injured than I'd realized.

I turn my eyes downwards, focusing on the strangely laid foot. The angle alone suggested a twisted ankle, but if it were hurting Spicer so badly, it could very well be broken. The boot made it difficult to tell.

"I'll have to take a look at that," I warn him, even as he hisses through his teeth and tries to distance himself from whatever he is feeling. "Be still."

I reach for the heavy black boot and go about undoing the buckles and straps. It takes a good deal of my concentration to do so gently enough that I don't set Jack to screaming again. Once that's done, I take the shoe by the heel and ease it off.

My only warning for what I see when the boot comes off is a disturbing squelch and the scent of blood.

Truly, the entire ankle is a mess, and a morbidly amused snort escapes me. "Twisted, broken, _and_ bleeding," I chuckle. "Congratulations, Spicer, you've reached a new standard for injuring yourself."

Jack attempts a laugh as well, but it comes out more whimper than mirth. "Sweet," he says, "new high score!"

I shake my head, grinning despite myself. "You aren't walking anywhere anytime soon," I say unnecessarily. "How do you intend to get home in this condition?"

Jack shrugs in a way that suggests he has no idea. "Dunno," he admits aloud. "I'd have a bot carry me home, usually, but…"

He trails off, but I know what he means to say. During the Showdown earlier, I constantly found myself sidestepping scrap-metal and avoiding bits of circuitry on the ground. Clearly, all of his machines had been smashed to pieces before I'd even arrived.

And then, I nearly slapped my palm against my forehead: the Showdown; Panaceia's Teardrop.

"You'll be able to fly yourself home in a moment, Spicer," I assured, bringing forth the white crystal Wu.

There was more confusion in his gaze, more helpless uncertainty, but he was silent and allowed me to do as I pleased.

As if I wouldn't have, had he any objections to vocalize.

I placed the Panaceia's Teardrop against Jack's bloodied ankle. This particular Shen Gong Wu healed from the place of contact and outwards, so it only made sense to lay it upon the worst injury. Though Spicer gave a stifled grunt at the pressure on the fragile area, he bore the pain amazingly well, and I wondered how much he had suffered to be able to do it.

Announcing the name of the mystical object, I activated Panaceia's Teardrop and watched coolly as for Jack's battered foot, time appeared to reverse. Locked up muscles relaxed and allowed bone to shift back into place and fuse together properly. Broken skin sealed up easily, leaving no evidence of a cut save for the blood smeared over now smooth flesh.

Spicer sighed in relief and experimentally rolled his ankle, encountering no trouble whatsoever. I continued to hold the crystal against him and glanced at his face out of the corner of my eye as he sat up.

He reached up to touch the back of his head, right where he'd hit it on who knows what and abruptly, I found I could not look away. Even as I acknowledged somewhere in my mind that any head injury Jack had was fading away and he was far more coherently inspecting himself, I was…stuck, for lack of a better word, watching his movements.

The sight of dusty white fingers buried in fire-red hair, complimented by ruby-red eyes that were full of so many emotions that naming them all would be a fool's errand… It was a surprisingly enchanting view.

I then found myself completely silent trying to reconcile that word with _Spicer,_ of all people.

While I was busy with that, Jack managed to get his feet under him and stood up, balancing awkwardly on one leg as he replaced the boot I'd earlier removed. I remained kneeling on the ground for the moment. Only an insecure man would be troubled to have another man of nearly seven feet towering over them, and I was far from insecure. I would stand when I was ready to stand and not a moment before.

As I'd already known, I was fully capable of being intimidating in a less-than-intimidating position, for as I looked up at Jack and made eye contact, he flinched almost imperceptibly and turned away. He could not meet my gaze.

"Um…thanks," he said at length, fidgeting awkwardly. "For fixing me and…yeah. I don't know why you'd bother, but I'm, uh…grateful and all that."

"Consider it a favor for a favor," I replied without thought. "In exchange for your gift of the Blood Pearl, I allowed you use of Panaceia's Teardrop. We are even."

Jack's eyes widened with something like understanding, and just as quickly, his expression crumpled. He reminded me vaguely of a kicked dog.

"Right," he said quickly, nodding even as a tone I couldn't decipher caused his voice to waver. "That's…that makes sense. Even. Right, good."

Having said this, he activated his helipack and chanced another glance at me. Before he hurriedly looked away again, I saw a raw flash of pain in his guileless eyes. "I'll see you later," he muttered almost to himself as he took off into the sky. "Maybe…"

I watched him become nothing more than a speck on the horizon and then got to my feet. I looked to the crystal in my hand and saw that it was still stained with Jack's blood. The contrast reminded me all the more of the strange boy…strange young _man_ who'd just fled from me a second time.

I truly have been evil a _long_ time. Is my tongue so accustomed to spinning lies whenever they suit me that one could slip past my lips without a conscious decision to obscure the truth?

I did not offer my aid to Spicer with the evening of a debt in mind. The Blood Pearl had not encroached upon my thoughts even once. I had simply done it.

Curling my fist around my latest conquest, indifferent to the blood dampening my glove, I watched the horizon for a few more moments where Jack had disappeared.

"Hmm."

...

I am irritated.

The source of that irritation is only serving to aggravate me further. I loathe cyclical emotion loops like these.

It has been three months since I've last seen Jack. If anything, I should be rejoicing in this. I should be relieved at the sudden peace and quiet in my home, finally able to concentrate on my thousands of complex Heylin machinations and plot in solitude.

Instead, I am bothered.

I do not like this silence that has descended over my stronghold. At some point, it seems I became _accustomed_ to Jack's visits; his tendency to intrude upon me and run off at the mouth about anything and everything his mind can think of, and it can think of _quite_ a lot.

I wonder when, precisely, this happened, for I surely hadn't noticed. When did Jack cease to be merely an annoyance to be brushed off?

…and when did I begin thinking of him as 'Jack' instead of 'Spicer'?

I don't seem to have answers for either of these questions, and it irks me tremendously.

Following my last encounter with him, I went about my business as usual, certain he would come to see me eventually. I had surmised he was avoiding me after the Blood Pearl incident out of fear that I might be angry with him for his presumptuous behavior. He had seen for himself during the business with Panaceia's Teardrop that I wasn't the least bit upset with him. Knowing he wasn't going to be facing my unholy, evil wrath, I was positive his visits would resume.

But they haven't. He's still avoiding me.

Why? And why does it bother me to think he _is_ avoiding me?

However, I am certain that we haven't crossed paths intentionally. I have kept an eye on Jack since we parted last.

He is not special: I keep tabs on everyone aware of my existence. It's only a prudent precaution for a Heylin lord to keep watch over potential dissenters to my rule. Even so, I have been checking up on Jack more than usual; more than the others.

I want to know what he's up to. What does he mean by only attending Showdowns for low-level Wu that I have no interest in? Why did he deny a renewed partnership with Wuya and order her to leave "before Chase comes looking for you"? Why does he look at his helipack at the same time of day he used to visit my palace and then storm out of his lab?

_Why is he avoiding me?_

I'm going to find out right now.

It takes only a few moments and a small expenditure of magic before I am standing in the middle of Jack's lab, arms folded over my chest and my expression schooled into a blank, authoritative mask.

"Spicer," I say, and it's all I have to, for Jack spins around to face me immediately, his wrench clattering to the floor in surprise.

"Chase," he all but breathes, and I am displeased to see his eyes dart over towards the stairs. He is fighting the urge to bolt.

It would do him no good if he did. The barest flicker of my power, and the door at the top of the stairs was locked.

The click of it was enough to send Jack's gaze back to me, full of fear and something I can't quite name. He swallows hard and I can see him stifle a shiver. "Chase," he says again. "Hi."

That, I do not dignify with a response. I merely raise an eyebrow and wait for him to say something worthy of a reply.

"Um…it's been awhile," he settles on eventually, and then I speak.

"Just as you seemed to want it."

Nervousness in his eyes, so obvious that it seems pathetic when he begins to feign ignorance. "What are you talking about?" he asks. "I wasn't—"

"I'm not _stupid,_ Spicer," I remind him in a very no-nonsense tone, and his eyes fall elsewhere guiltily. "You have gone out of your way as of late to avoid seeing me."

It takes a few moments to get a reply. Jack's fists clench and unclench and his gaze cannot remain on any one thing for long. It never touches me. He worries his lip with his teeth, but sucks in a deep breath and declares, "Yeah, I have," in the most pseudo-confident voice I have ever heard.

"Why?"

To this, he says nothing.

"_Spicer._" The tone in my voice is a warning. _I will not be ignored. I am not to be trifled with. Answer me, now._

He frowns, his expression that of one put in an uncomfortable position, but he answers me. "I didn't want to see you."

Something dark rises in me at those words. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?" I demand to know.

Jack shrugs. "It means what it means," he says woodenly. "I didn't…I _don't_ want to see you."

I'm scowling before I realize it. "Why _not,_ Spicer?" I ask him, and my voice is practically a hiss. "Have you done something I should be angry at you for?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I just…I don't want to see you anymore."

I can feel fury welling up within me, indignant at the implication of his words. I force the worst of it back: Jack is a mortal, he could never withstand the full force of _my_ anger.

"_Why?_" I ask again, and Jack flinches in fear because I am only a few inches in front of him, now, a very unfriendly aura rolling off of me in waves. He fears for his life; he fears I will hurt him.

I just might if he doesn't explain himself soon.

"B-because I," he stutters out, "because…you…I—"

"_Today,_ Spicer," I growl.

And there it is. "Because it hurts when I look at you!" he blurts out and I'm startled enough to take a step back when he meets my eyes.

Pain, I see in his again, not physical, but much deeper. The same, raw pain I saw after I healed his ankle for him; after I gave him an explanation for why I'd done it. The same pain I saw when I implied I had only saved him as a matter of repaying a debt and nothing more.

_Ah._

He takes a step back, as stunned by his declaration as I am. His face is stark and he stares at nothing with wide eyes as he places a hand on his work table to steady himself. Then, he lowers his head and sighs deeply.

"F…forget I said anything," he mutters desperately. "It's…it doesn't matter. Just go…do evil warlord stuff or whatever it is you do. I'll do evil genius stuff, and we never have to cross paths again. Just…forget it."

He turns ever so slightly and takes a step toward the stairs.

I know perfectly well the door is locked. I know he cannot leave this lab unless I let him.

The sight of him attempting to run from me a third time sends me into action, anyway.

My hand locks tightly around his wrist in the space of a second and I have him. Jack is in my grasp and he is not going _anywhere._

Neither of us say a word, but Jack seems frozen in place, staring at me in shock and disbelief. I didn't read his eyes, this time: I simply know.

I am…occupied by the feeling of Jack's hand in mine. Why am I not wearing gloves today? Was I agitated enough to forget them, or had I needed to remove them for something? I couldn't recall and the reason didn't seem very important now.

What _was_ important was the warm, white skin against my palm. Jack wasn't wearing his gloves, either, and the flesh he usually hid beneath them was mind-bogglingly soft.

I can't say what I'd expected. I can't say I'd ever put my mind to the task of imagining what Jack Spicer's skin might feel like. Even so, there was a disconnect in my mind between the loud, brash, and reckless boy I once met and this stunned, quiet, and hurt young man whose hand was pleasantly soft in mine.

Intrigued, I loosened my grip enough to turn Jack's hand over, palm skyward. He was either too shocked by my actions or too frightened of me to resist; possibly both.

I touched his hand gently, inspecting it from the long fingers to the square palm. This part of his hand was much more like something I could've expected. Calluses and tiny scars decorated the palm and the underside of every finger, a latent effect of working with one's hands for a number of years, even more so when that working is done with sharp metals. Such roughness is normally off-putting to me, a mark of a blue collar peasant unable to make a living any easier way.

On Jack, it is fitting. These marks and calluses do not represent lower class; they represent work done for the sheer joy of it. I know for a fact that Jack could sell his machines for profit at any time he wishes and become infinitely richer than he already is. I also know that he would never do such a thing, because he does not build his machines for profit. He _enjoys_ it. It is his passion.

To sell his creations would be to cheapen his passion, and for a moment, I find myself admiring the strength of Jack's principles in keeping his mechanical wonders to himself.

I turn his hand over again and marvel at the sheer contrast in texture. So smooth and warm beneath my fingers…have I ever felt such wonderfully delicate skin before?

Something logical in me points out that I must have, somewhere in one of my hundreds of years, but I cannot call it to mind, now.

I realize immediately that I want to touch Jack even more.

"Chase," he gasps, shocked and maybe a little frightened as I reach for the zipper of his trench coat, "what are you—"

"Quiet," I order him, and my tone isn't very commanding; subdued, even, and a bit hushed, but it does the job well enough. Jack doesn't say a word as I unzip his coat and slide it off of his shoulders.

I'm certain he fears the worst as the leather jacket pools on the ground about his feet, but I would never stoop so low. I simply wish to touch him.

And touch him, I do.

Jack seems to have a penchant for wearing sleeveless shirts beneath his coat. The Frankenstein's monster one he used to wear so often must have gotten too short for his long body in between then and now. The shirt he wears currently is black with a biohazard symbol emblazoned upon the chest. The pale yellow-green color of the decal tells me it must be glow-in-the-dark and I almost grin at how such a shirt is completely expected for a young man like him.

Instead, I place my hands on his forearms, feeling his skin beneath my touch. He is warm here, but not as warm as his hands were, so I stroke him gently to coax a bit more heat into him.

He gasps under his breath at this, and I see his flesh prickle ever so slightly with goosebumps. Smirking, I repeat the rubbing upon his bare biceps and all the way up to his shoulders, where that shockingly white skin momentarily disappears beneath a strip of black cloth before reappearing on the other side.

I ponder slipping a thumb beneath that strap and pulling it over his shoulder, but judging by the quick breaths Jack is inhaling and the thudding of his heart that I can hear from where I stand, I discard the idea. I have no desire to frighten him.

To avoid doing just that, I take a step closer and hear Jack gasp again. We are nearly chest-to-chest, now; nose-to-nose. I _almost_ have to look up at him. When did he get so damnably tall? Never mind, it doesn't matter.

What does matter is the look in Jack's eyes when I lay my hands against his face. Even as his cheeks heat quickly beneath my palms, I see a whirlwind of emotions in those bright red irises of his. Complete bewilderment, most prominently, alongside a growing sliver of desire and no small amount of trepidation.

"Chase," he quivers out and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my face. "What…what are you doing…?"

Isn't that the question of the century? I don't entirely know myself, but I'm not about to admit that aloud.

"Whatever I want," I say calmly and lean in a little further. Now, we _are_ nose-to-nose and this close, my senses are saturated in Spicer. I can hear his ragged breaths and his trip-hammering heart behind his ribs. I can see the contrast of reds and whites his face embodies; black, too, when he loses the nerve to keep his eyes open and shuts them to allow dark eyelashes to fan across his cheeks. I can still feel his soft skin, hot under my hands and his body fits nicely against mine. And his scent…

One deep breath and it takes all I have to hold back a very base, very carnal desire that would undoubtedly injure this young man trembling in my grasp. I smell the fear on him, of course, but it's practically drowned by something else.

Pheromones. Lust. Desire. _Want._

He wants me to touch him; he wants me to do with him as I will; he wants _this_ so much that it's suffocating whatever fear he has that I might use him or hurt him or kill him.

I kiss him and he squeaks, a sound so embarrassing to come out of a man that I might've teased him about it had my mouth not been crushed against his. His eyes are open again in shock, but they close again quickly.

It should be mentioned for the record that I am an excellent kisser.

In mere moments, I have his mouth open for me and he's sighing and shivering against me like this kiss is all he ever wanted; ever needed from me. The feeling of power and control I get is dangerously heady and I teach this untried young man how to properly kiss. He's a marvelously quick study.

I pull back the shortest distance possible to separate our lips and Jack leans forward trying to get the contact back, a distressed noise escaping him when he finds it impossible.

How long had Jack wanted me to do this that he was so _desperate?_ Certainly a long time if he was worried I was going to abandon him forever or whatever nonsense he's thinking after _kissing_ him.

"Jack," I murmur quietly and I feel him tremble in reaction to my voice. "Is this what you want?"

"Y…yes," he says helplessly and I'm struck by how _lost_ he looks right now. "I want…I want this. But I thought…"

"What?"

Another flash of pain in his eyes. "I thought you hated me," he confesses again, sounding horribly confused.

I'm briefly silent at that. I thought I had once, too. But do I?

I think of Jack, particularly in these last few encounters we've had. I find I can no longer call forth any of the feelings of resentment that used to come so easily at the mention of his name. I can't even seem to muster basic annoyance, anymore.

When had that happened?

All I can bring to mind is the sound of his boots echoing in my hall, the sight of dingy white fingers ruffling through that unnaturally red hair, the feel of soft and callused skin in turns, and the lingering scent of fear and lust as I kissed him.

And those brilliantly clear eyes that looked at me with such intense desire and love that a lesser man might be reduced to a cinder under their burning weight.

"I don't hate you," I decided firmly, dipping back down for another kiss; to commit his taste to memory like I had the rest of him.

No, I didn't hate Jack Spicer.

Quite the opposite, actually.

...

**A/N: WRITTEN BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE IT. THE REST OF YOU, DEAL.**

**...nah, just kidding. XD**

**I wrote this one because I realized that whenever I'd written in first person, it was always from Jack's perspective. I wanted to give Chase a try, and I think it turned out pretty cool. :)**

**Anyway, I hope you guys liked the fic, and Happy Holidays/New Year! :D**


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